Awakening
by socool83
Summary: New York; a city of crime and filth. Peter Parker experienced this first-hand as he watched his Uncle Ben slowly die before his eyes; an event that will bring him into a plot of corruption and deceit with the city's new Lieutenant: George Stacy. R&R
1. The First Step

***READ FIRST* **

**I don't know what got into me, but I largely changed this story. If you preferred the original, I'm sorry. Anyway, the changes I have made are pretty much just that I went BACK to 1st person, the story follows Peter and George Stacy, not Jean DeWolfe, and I have decided to use bold for emphasis and italics for thoughts. I think it works really well. Also, I cut ahead in the story. I felt that beginning before the bite dragged the story down too much. The actual story is exactly the same, though. That was unchanged. And just because I made you guys wait so long, I have 3-yes, 3-chapters for you guys. I'm also currently writing the 4th. It should be up pretty soon. I hope you guys enjoy it and if you haven't already, please check out my other Spider-Man fan fiction: Dark Wounds. It's currently wrapping up into something I'm rather pleased with. **

**Thanks and enjoy!**

**CHAPTER 1: THE FIRST STEP**

June 2nd.

_They said it would get easier. They said time would heal all wounds. Guess time gave up on me._

The rain was cold, hard, wet. It stung my face as the wind picked up. The trees bent and wavered over the crowd, the umbrellas being pulled from people's hands. My suit was getting wet and I pulled away the part that had become stuck to my chest, my hair damp and sticky against my skull. I clenched my jaw as I swallowed hard, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I couldn't peel my eyes from the granite just barely visible behind the eulogist, pupils retracing the engraved lettering. It struck a cord overtime I went over it. I ignored the words of the eulogist-who was just as wet, if not wetter than me-not really caring what kind words he had. He didn't know _him_, and he never would.

_My fault._

He stood there, taking his beating from the storm, like me. His white hair rolled in the wind. The slabs of granite, diorite and limestone, tracing back years of history, rolled on forever, up and down the hills until they hit the wall of trees far in the distance. It was a wonderful sight, one I would have loved to look at had it not been for present circumstances. I swallowed again, thunder rumbling in from my left, the crowd becoming restless. Aunt May's tears drowned out by a crack of lighting. And then another. And another. Each one like a firecracker.

_Or a gunshot._

The eulogist concluded his speech, my ears only picking up the last few words. I knew what was next. I had been thinking it over for hours now. Contemplating whether or not to give in or refuse. I couldn't properly express my feelings without opening up a door to the inner me. A selfish, brutal person with no care in the world. I hated him. I hated him like the world hated Hitler, or the Great Depression. I hated him because he was everything I wasn't and was at the same time. And it's because of him that I'm here. Here, in this retched place, on the verge of tears, watching as my Aunt politely declines the eulogist a speech, watching as the rain splashes down on everything in sight. I have only seconds to come to a conclusion. It never truly seems real until it's staring you in the face.

He turns towards me, wide-eyed and curious. And suddenly, I wonder how many times he's been in this position. How many times he's watched as loved ones cry away their pain, sinking down to the point of no return. Aunt May is the first to go, the first one to lose herself to her grief.

_How am I'm staying so strong?_

The priest nods lightly, hoping to catch my attention. I gather myself, wiping the rain drops from my eyes and look back up at him. He closes his book, eyes still trained on me. I realize that ignoring the problem will never make it go away without my help.

And I shake my head.

The priest steps down from his pedal-stool, bible and speech in tow. As he steps away from the stool, picking up the pulpit, the patch of dirt is revealed. The edges soggy and wet beneath a layer of rain water. The earth bunched up in the center, mounding out at the top to form a dome. Specks of grass sprinkled within it. I grit my teeth at the thought of _him _lying there, cold, pale, alone. I imagine his cheeks, sunken in and sharp, his rib cage hollowed out, empty, his once warm heart now sitting in a medical jar in some lab somewhere. The idea makes me sick to my stomach, eyes still focused on the grave; a six foot deep entrance to either heaven or hell.

I pray it's the latter.

Slowly, but surely, people rise from their seats, the black plastic, held together by cheap metal, Clanking and snapping as chairs collide. I get up with them, my drenched suit barely able to move. I stretch out the pants and sleeves to unravel the wrinkles. I was the last to head for the cars, the other ten or so people racing for their vehicles to avoid the worst the storm had to offer. Aunt May and her friend Anna shoulder-to-shoulder as they march on. I scan the crowd, shuffling my steps, my eyes meeting a sea of grey and white hair. I barely even know these people, and while I recognize that they were _his_ friends, and some Aunt May's, I still wish they would disappear, leave me and Aunt May to our own grievances. Especially one certain person, who deep down, I didn't actually hate. I just needed to keep a clear head.

And she was heading right for me.

She distracted me in every possible, emotional way. The way the dress fit her slender body, the ail of mystery the black veil added, the way her purse bobbled in the crock of her arm as she held the umbrella above her head. All it did was distract me. I couldn't take my eyes off as she headed up the slight incline towards me. I was tempted to avoid her, swerve through the crowd, toward the hearse where Aunt May and I were supposed to sit. But something deep down inside me kept me where I was, stopped me in my tracks, waiting for her voice to send goosebumps up my spine. Trying to clear my mind, I looked down, watching as the grass sway and bend to the will of the wind. Before I knew it, she was on me, her shadow, draping over me.

I looked up at her, admiring the flow of her deep, red hair as a gust of wind ran past. "Hey…" I muttered.

"Peter…" She sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm_** sure**_, MJ." My voice had become slightly agitated and I regretted it instantly, but given the moment, I figured it would slide.

She looked at me with sad eyes, the dark eyeliner highlighting her vivid, green pupils. I opened my mouth to say something, but shut it, my throat hoarse, dry. She grabbed me and pulled me in to her. She wrapped her arms around my back, resting her chin on my shoulder. I stood limply as the goosebumps rose up my back. The crack of lighting. The roar of thunder. I placed my hands on her hips, ready to push her off to help me concentrate, but found that I couldn't. My arms had turned to jelly, my muscles giving out on me. I gave in and hugged her, accepting her embrace. The hug was warm and inviting and I was actually glad to have given in.

She released me, my arms reluctantly dropping to my sides. She smiled, nodded, and turned around towards the cars. I watched her walk away into the relentless rain, watched as she headed down the incline, watched as the wind took control of her hair again. I watched until my fingers went numb from the rain, until Aunt May called my name from the passenger seat in the hearse. And even as I opened the door to the car and stepped into the back seat, despite all this, I still thought of _him_.

And I would continue to think of _him_ until the day I'm there beside _him_.

**xXx**

_I shouldn't have taken the bus. Should have flown. City looks more civilized from up there. _

The bus is cramped, dirty, old. The smell of age-old leather and body odor pollutes my nose. The seats are stained an ugly black, the silver piping rusted and greasy. I readjusted in my seat, the wallet in my back pocket scratching at the bus seat, the person next to me falling over onto my shoulder, passed out, the smell of whiskey on his breath. Water splashed the window as I looked outside, pressing my forehead against the glass, I noticed storm clouds converging over the island. The blue sky I had seen hours before had become a mixing palette of grey and black. Rolling thunder initiated by sparks of lightning hailing from the sky.

_More rain. There's barely any rain in San Diego. I haven't seen the sun in hours. _

The pristine, silver skyscrapers of Midtown were slowly, but surely, vanishing from sight. The streets-once full of men in business suits and ties, dripping of rain water-were slowly shifting to ratty clothing and bad hygiene. The buildings were becoming smaller, weaker, run down, their brick exteriors slowly being chipped away at by years of erosion. Judging by the change in view, I assumed we were almost at my new apartment in Harlem, a few miles from the local police precinct. I pulled back the sleeve to my jacket, exposing my wrist watch.

6:51 PM.

I furrowed my brow. In nine minutes, the bus ride would have reached the seven hour mark. The rain pecking at the bus window was methodic and soothing. It put my mind at ease. I didn't want the job, I never would have taken it if the pay wasn't so damn good. As I looked out the window, a black hearse passed by, a rather depressed teenager sitting in the back seat, his dark hair matted and sticky against his skull.

_Poor kid. _

The bus came to a screeching halt only a minute or two later, the brakes squealing as they held the wheels in place, the rusted axils creaking as they forced themselves to stop rotating. The bus pulled forward and then shapely back again, my body swaying with it. The drunk next to me slapped the back of his head on the metal bar on the front of the seat behind us. He grumbled to himself, cursing under his breath as he massaged the back of his head. I waited for him to get up from his seat, the leather breathing as he stood. I followed closely behind. A larger man, wearing no jacket with piercings and tattoos all across his body, pushed his away in front of me, knocking my luggage to the bus floor.

"Excuse you." I snarled, bending down to pick up my suitcase.

As I stood back up, I saw the man facing me, snarling.

"What'd ya say?"

_Shit…_

"I said 'Excuse you.'"

The larger man, clenched his fists, knuckles cracking. I knew where this was going and I knew how to deal with it. My eyes met his and we stared intensely at each other for a long time, neither of us making the first move. The bus driver got up from the seat to calm down the man, but he was too slow. The man sent a fist hurdling towards my face. I lifted the suitcase in front of the strike, his hand colliding with the luggage, denting the plastic. He moaned in pain and I used the opportunity to hit him across the face with the already dented suitcase. He stumbled with the hit, grabbing the seat to his left. I dropped the suitcase and landed a clean shot to the jaw. He staggered back, disoriented, out of joint. To finish it off, I grabbed his neck with my left hand, my thumb and middle finger pressing down on pressure points directly beneath the jaw, and slammed him down onto the bus floor. He lay there gasping for breath, moaning and writhing in pain.

Leaving the bus, mangled suitcase in my left hand, the bus driver gave me a suspicious look.

"Military training." I stated, exiting the bus.

The rain had become downpour, the puddles on the sidewalk leaping with life as raindrops broke the tension of the standing water. People scurried and raced about, trying to find cover from the incoming storm. I pulled up the collar on my trench coat and held the suitcase over my head as I headed down the street to the entrance of the bus terminal. A man, in a t-shirt, brushed past me, knocking the suitcase from my hand. He kept moving, leaving me to pick it up, again. I bent down to get it, when a sense of fear grabbed me.

_My wallet!_

I turned around, the man already out of sight and checked my pocket. It was still there.

_Thank God. _

I pressed through the front doors to the terminal, squeezing past the line waiting to get out which had clumped together into a mob. My wet shoes slapped the tile floor of the terminal, my clothes dripping of rain.

"Stacy! George Stacy!"

I looked up to see a man, few inches taller than me with jet black hair and a similar trench coat as me. His jaw was squared off and clean-shaven, arms they size of my head.

I approached the man, slightly cautious. "Yes…?"

The man shrugged slightly, smiling. Waiting for a different reaction.

"Frank. Frank Castle. I'm the Captain! We talked on the phone."

"Oh, Frank! Man, you look _**entirely**_ different than what I expected." I gasped, dropping my suitcase and holding my hand out for a handshake.

He took my hand with a firm grip and shook it once. "For better or for worse?" He smiled again, walking over to my side and wrapping his arm around my shoulders. My head lined up to his armpit.

"I was expecting…_**smaller**_."

"You don't get a Green Beret being a runt."

_No, I suppose you don't._

"You're military?"

"Yes, sir."

"Me too. Small world."

His face lit up and he gripped my shoulder tighter. "'Bout time we got another _**vet**_ on the team. C'mon, let's take a walk."

I picked up my suitcase, following him to the door. My footsteps clicking against the tile floor, the loudspeaker announcing the arrival of a bus, the light, elevator music playing in the background. All it did was give me a headache. We approached the line for the exit, Frank reaching into his pocket. He headed to the front, waving me over. I hesitated, not quite sure what he was doing. Halfway up the line, he turned, waving me over again, slightly more urgent this time. Reluctantly, I gave in and followed him to the front.

Frank moved up to the first person in life; a middle-aged man with a coat and suitcase, and shoved him aside.

"What the _**hell**_, man?" He barked, shoving Frank back.

Frank bared his teeth, showing his badge. "NYPD." He leaned in on the man who's defense had weakened largely. "Next time, I'll show you my _**gun**_."

The man stepped back, lowering his head. Frank put the badge away and stepped out into the rain, pulling the top of his trench coat over his head. I stepped up to the man who was taking his spot back in line. When he saw me, in a similar suit as Frank, he backed up urgently, lowering his head again.

"I'm sorry." I whispered, gently sliding past him and back into the downpour.

The two of us walked briskly down the street, civilians brushing past just as fast. The rain had, somehow, become harder in the few minutes I was inside the bus terminal, my face numbing as the rain attacked. I looked over at Frank who looked completely unaffected by the rain.

_Must be that Green Beret training. Heh._

"Any family, Georgie?" He suddenly spoke up, not even looking at me.

"I prefer George."

"Sure you do, Georgie."

I shook my head, ignoring the immaturity of the name. "Yeah, I do. An ex-wife and a daughter."

"You bring her to New York?"

"My daughter?"

"Or your ex-wife?" He smirked.

"No. I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Helen-my ex-wife, in case you didn't put that together-didn't want me to bring her to New York. She said she might bring her over if she changes her mind, but for the time being, the two of them are staying in San Diego."

I pray Helen keeps her there.

"Typical family man." Frank commented, wiping his face with the palm of his hand.

"What about _**you**_?" My turn to pry.

"Well, I have a beautiful wife and two kids; one boy, one girl." He smiled, obviously proud.

"Big family."

"Yeah, I-" He began.

A man in grubby clothing and torn pants, walking next to Frank on his left side at the moment, sneezed.

Frank stopped in his tracks, turning toward the man and looking at his sleeve. I stopped with him. "Did you just _**sneeze**_ on me?"

"I'm _**so**_ sorry, sir. I'm a bit under the _**weather**_." He looked up at the sky and laughed to himself. I smiled with the man.

Frank didn't find it so funny. He swung out his forearm, striking the sick man's neck. The man coughed and sputtered, holding his throat. Following through with momentum, Frank landed a blow with his right hand to the man's nose. The man fell to the floor, barely conscious, not trained to taking in strikes from a Green Beret.

Frank bent down to the man staring at the sky, eyes hazy and glazed over. "New coat. You're lucky I don't make you _**pay**_ for the dry cleaning." He gave the man a playful slap on the cheek and stood up, wiping his sleeve up his hand. He turned towards me. "Let's go."

I followed Frank slowly, body turned so that I was moving forward but looking back. The man's head bobbled off the side of the curb, his back drenched in a puddle. The wind picked up and tossed garbage across him. The other citizens ignored him, one man even stepping over the his legs to avoid tripping.

_New York..._

I pray, again, that Helen keeps Gwen.

**xXx**

I shut the door as fast as I could after Aunt May entered the house. Despite the rain, she still moves slowly, taking her time to enter the home. The picture frames rattle as I shut the door, lights shake. I loosen the tie from around my neck, massaging the raw patch of skin underneath my shirt. I let the tie hang limply and unbutton my jacket.

_Ahhh..._

It does wonders to relax me. Being dressed up was never my forte. The house is warm, relaxing. The tan walls and orange-tinted lights putting me in a slightly better mood. Looking ahead, I see Aunt May somberly climbing the steps to the second floor. For a woman in her fifties, she's moving terribly. Her back is slightly arched, her brown hair turning white at the temples. She hasn't had time to dye it since _he_ died. The dark, brown rug beneath her absorbing the dripping rain water.

"Do you want something to drink?" I ask, shrugging, sliding my left hand into my pants pocket.

"No, Peter, I'm okay…I'm just tired."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm _**sure**_, Peter."

The conversation is an eerie call-back to the one me and MJ shared. I feel like a hypocrite for putting Aunt May in the same position I so hated.

With nothing left to say, Aunt May continues up the stairs and into the first room on the left, the door shutting quietly behind her. I sigh, rubbing my temples and move further into the house. To my left is a small nightstand with a vase of flowers and a mirror on the wall above it. Atop the mirror is a clock, hung tightly by screws. I step up to the table and look at the clock.

7:44 PM.

_Eight hours of mourning is too tiring for anyone, especially Aunt May. I don't blame her for going to bed so early. _

As I drop my eyes to leave for the kitchen, I spy myself in the mirror.

The view is disturbing. My eyes were hollowed out, bloodshot and dark around the edges. My skin, pale. I look sick…or dead. Ever since _he_ died, I hadn't truly eaten anything. The rain probably didn't help, either. I instantly became hungry with the thought of food on my mind. Wasting no time, I enter the kitchen, the bright linoleum walls and excess lighting blinding me. I dim down the lights and lazily make myself a ham sandwich. The meat's torn and hanging from the bread which is soaked in mayonnaise. It is not a good looking sandwich.

_Not my best work, but it'll suffice. _

I fall into the chair and take my first bite of the sandwich. The mayonnaise is stronger than the ham and bread giving the whole thing a very creamy, fake taste, but I was hungry and it was doing its job. As I take my next bite, my eyes wander over to that same table with the mirror and clock. I admire the empty spot beside the flowers and stare at it for a while. It takes me a second, but I eventually realize what it needs. I leave my sandwich on the table and creep up the stairs to the second floor. The door opens quietly and I enter Aunt May's room as soundless as possible. I spot the object I'm looking for on her dresser. She's already fast asleep, her face cushioned by the pillow. She's still wearing her black dress, the umbrella lying on the floor by the bed. My fingers curl around the wooden square and I start for the door. Before I leave, I pull a blanket over Aunt May and shut off the lights.

I head back down the stairs as quietly as I went up them and step out onto the first floor, heading for the nightstand beside the door. The object clicks subtly as I place it on the table, sliding it to the perfect angle and step back, admiring my work. I can make out my reflection in the mirror out of the edge of my vision, but ignore the sight. Satisfied, I turn and go back to my food. I fall into the chair once again, the wood creaking with age. My legs are numb and aching and I'm happy to be able to sit down. I look over at the table as I eat, my mouth chewing on autopilot.

The flowers bring a sense of respect.

The picture of _him_ is a nice touch.

**xXx**

I drag my feet along the carpeted floor of the police station's second floor, a female detective walks past me putting on a coat and hat, briefcase in hand. I turn the corner and scale the steps to the third and final floor. I peel back my sleeve and check my watch; a feat easier said than done with my arm shaking from walking.

8:31 PM

_A minute late. Not bad._

When I reach the third floor, I enter a newer, cleaner hallway, the option to go left at the top of the stairs blocked by a white colored wall. To my right, a short hallway-barely thirty feet long-a wooden door with the word 'Commissioner' embroidered on the one-way glass window. An officer in typical police garb guards the door, hands behind his back, a pistol in his holster. The hat casts a menacing shadow over his eyes. I ignore the man and head for the door, my left hand reaching out for the door knob. He holds out his hand to stop me before I even touch the handle.

"Name?" He asks professionally with great posture.

"George…George Stacy. The Commissioner is expecting me."

"Hold on."

And with that, he disappears behind the door. I take a deep breath, not quite sure what to expect from the Commissioner.

_The city's falling down the shitter and he's the man that's supposed to prevent it from being flushed away. It doesn't seem like he's doing a damn thing._

After about twenty seconds the door reopens and the same man steps out of the room.

"You're clear."

I nod awkwardly, smiling to show my pleasure and reach for the door knob again.

"_**Woah**_, wait." He barks, holding me back by the shoulder. "_**That**_ stays." He points to my briefcase.

I comply, not really giving a damn if I bring my clothes and toothbrush into the Commissioner's office.

The room reeks of cigar smoke and liquor. Behind the layer of smoke lies a large room with dark, wood flooring and red walls. A Victorian-Age desk near the back wall, two chairs of the same fashion placed in front of it. A row of bookshelves line the wall behind it. The Commissioner sits behind the desk, taking a drag of a fat cigar, an ashtray on the right, an empty bottle of liquor and a shot glass on the left. He looks up at me as I close the door, and coughs, his welcome temporally suspend.

"Come in, come in." He managed to make out before falling into another fit of coughing.

The amount of smoke in the room is clogging my throat, but I ignore the feeling and take a seat in the chair on the left.

"You're _**Stacy**_, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Commissioner Miller." He extends out his hand for a handshake, dirt and grime lodged under his finger nails. A jewel-encrusted wedding ring on his finger.

I take the hand and give it a squeeze.

"I called you here for a _**reason**_, I hope you realize." His pasty, white face stretches with each word. "We need a good cop. No. A _**great**_ cop." Another cough. "I _**trust**_ you can do this. Especially after reading over your resume."

"I _**won't **_let you down." I guarantee.

"No, I didn't think so." He knocks the cigar over the ashtray, the smoldering bits of tobacco and paper drifting off into the plastic dish. "I have your_** first **_assignment already…If you're _**up**_ for it."

"I don't even know what it _**is**_."

He leans over to his left, opening a draw on the desk and pulling out a manilla folder. With a dirty hand, he presses it in my face.

"Take a look."

I grab the folder, gaze switching between his receding hairline and the folder. When I open it up, a mugshot of a wiry man with stubble and a crooked nose grace the inside. The picture is black-n-white, the smell of fresh xerox fills my nose. The pictures new.

"Name's _**Carradine**_. A lackey for the mob and heroin addict."

I flipped the page to a crime scene report, a bagged bullet paper-clipped to the top of the page.. The paper details the murder of one 'Ben Parker', aged fifty-nine. Shot a few miles outside his home in Forrest Hills, Queens. The bullet lodged in his chest, heart exploded. His car; a white sedan, was reported missing as well.

"Pulled _**this**_ little stunt a couple days ago." the Commissioner adds, dropping the rest of his cigar in the tray.

"All for the _**car**_?" I ask, slightly confused.

"Needed the car for a quick get-a-way after having lost some money for the _**Kingpin**_."

My eyes trace the paper quickly, once more. There is nothing here about this 'Kingpin.'

"I'm sorry, sir, but where on this report does it detail that _**last**_ part?"

He looks up at me, slightly befuddled. "It's in_** another **_report." He adds silently, leaning back in the chair.

"Oh…" Is all I manage to say.

"So…taking the case? Or do I have to find _**another**_ Lieutenant?" His voice has reached its normal volume again and he smiles.

I extend my hand, folder still open across my lap. "You'll get my _**best **_work."

"I count on it." He acknowledges my hand and gives it a strong shake. "I'll see you first thing in the morning."

I stand up, forgetting the folder was in my lap and watch as the papers dance along the floor. Rolling my eyes, I bend down to pick them up. I notice a new paper lying face down.

_Must have been stuck to the back of the report._

I turn it over and notice that it's a handful of photographs of the deceased. The largest picture in the center shows the man from the chest up, the face pointed directly at the camera, eyes shut, a blood stain on the left breast. I look at the man's face and a familiar feeling floods my mind. I look over the features of the man's face, hoping to see if I know the man. Nothing comes up, but for some reason…

…I keep seeing the boy in the hearse.


	2. Releasing

**CHAPTER 2: RELEASING **

June 3rd.

Aunt May came down the stairs slowly, her robe dragging and bobbing on the steps behind her. I took another bite of my waffle and watched as she headed towards me, yawning. She lowered herself into the chair with ease, her eyes dark and heavy, skin pale. I swallowed hard as she finally sat down, taking a deep breath of air. She looked up at me and I froze mid-bite, watching her. She smiled and I found it difficult to smile back. Her smile felt forced, like there was nothing backing it.

I dropped my fork to my plate, clearing my throat a few times and leaned back in my chair. "Morning."

"Morning."

"Sleep well?"

She shrugged, hugging herself, wrapped in the robe.

I licked my lips, the syrup from my waffle still fresh. "Uh…I was thinking…maybe we go to _**church**_?"

She looked up at me bewildered, her frayed hair falling in front of her face. "_**Church**_?"

I nodded.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just think we should. Have our own _**personal**_ funeral."

"Funerals _**are**_ personal, Peter. And _**yesterday**_ was the funeral. Incase you didn't realize."

_Oh, I realized._

"I know…I just thought we _**should**_."

She smiled, lowering her eyes, and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Peter, you're _**sixteen**_. You should be out having fun."

_I can't have fun now._

"I know…"

"And if you _**really**_ want to mourn, why don't you go next door? Anna Watson is _**excellent**_ at consoling. And her niece, Mary Jane? I saw you two yesterday." She smiled again, brighter this time.

I almost smiled, but couldn't convince myself that I should. "Yeah, I guess."

"And if you really want, you can go to the church. Though, I have _**no**_ idea why you would want to."

"Do you have any _**other**_ suggestions then?" I gave her a small, half-smile and she smiled back.

"Take the car out." She shrugged, pulling herself up from the table and going over to the stove.

"The _**car**_? Even after my joy ride the other night?"

"Peter…you taking the car out was _**far**_ from the worst thing to happen that night. We both know that." She began to fill up the tea pot with water, the other hand turning the stove burner on.

I could hear her sniff and swallow hard, holding back tears.

_I'm gonna be sick._

"I don't _**want**_ the car." I pushed my plate away, not feeling hungry any longer. "But I guess I'll take it, anyway."

"Whatever you want, Peter." She sighed, tea pot over flowing.

_I want to leave, that's what I want._

"Tea pot." I warned, getting up from my seat and heading towards the front door, to the table with the picture of _him_, where the car keys were.

"Oh…I didn't even notice." She sounded spacey and by the way she rested the tea pot on the stove burner, I could tell she wasn't all there to begin with.

"I'm gonna go."

"Drive safe."

I pried the door open, the bronze latches twisting, and walked out into the humid, summer air.

"Oh, by the way, Peter." She called back, her voice just barely escaping through the door.

"Yeah?"

"The picture of him was a nice touch."

"I thought so, too."

**xXx**

"Christ, Frank. You _**have**_ to smoke that in here?" I gasped, holding back a cough, tears welling up in my eyes.

"You're just gonna have to get used to it." Frank laughed, leaning back in the seat and taking in a lung-full of smoke.

"I'm trying to_** drive**_."

"Yeah, and while you're at it, try pressing on the gas. You have a green light."

_Dammit._

I growled, slamming on the gas, the car sputtering to life and screeching away. "Can't see a damn thing with that cigarette."

"Fine. Fine. You big baby..." Frank rolled his eyes, opening the window to his right. All the smoke and grime in the air flowing out of the car like water.

I took a deep breath of air, my lungs burning from the smoke. I was relieved to have my sight and breath back, but the vast amounts of smoke had left its toll.

_Could use a cigarette…_

"Where are we going, anyway? I thought we were assigned to the Parker case?" I asked, ignoring the age-old need for a smoke and slamming on the brakes as a taxi veered into my lane without a turning signal. "Asshole."

"We **are** on the Parker case. Eye-witness' report seeing a white sedan pull away from the scene of the crime."

_A white sedan._

"The same white sedan reported missing by the Parker family?"

"That's what we're here to find out."

"What's 'here', anyway? You never answered me."

"Some deli in Harlem. Dunno the place. "

I waited a second for more info, waiting for the traffic to disperse.

"An address would be helpful." I explained.

"Just keep going straight." He demanded, pointing his free hand toward the front window. Another drag of his cigarette. "It'll be on your right side. Place is called 'Ditko Deli'."

"What does the report tell you?"

He pulled up his clipboard and scanned the paper. "Armed robbery at six in the morning."

"That's it?"

"We're going to get more info." Frank sounded exasperated, but still managed to force a laugh. A stupid, hokey laugh. "Geez, Georgie. How did you ever get to Lieutenant?"

_Shut up._

**xXx**

The deli reeked of rotten food and mold, the sound of rat feet on the ceiling. The displays around the cash register knocked over, register cracked in half, some food on neighboring shelves thrown across the grease-covered tile. The single light in the center of the room was dim and fading fast, the occasional flicker to warn of impending darkness. Frank pushed in front of me, taking a good look of the place as we passed through and let out a hefty laugh. No one was behind the register and I half expected to find a bloody body on the other side.

There was none.

"Hey! Anybody here?" Frank boomed, taking a 'Kit Kat' off the counter and tearing away the plastic wrapping.

"What do you think you're doing, Frank?"

"Having breakfast. What does it _**look**_ like I'm doing?"

_Pissing me off. _

"It _**looks**_like you're stealing from a man who has already lost everything."

Frank furrowed his brow, still chewing the chocolate. "It's a '_**Kit Kat**_'!"

I stared at him as he straightened out his back, rolling out his shoulders. He continued to give me a dirty look. I stared back for a moment before shifting my gaze to the door behind the counter. A middle-aged man with a bad comb-over slid through, his large, curious eyes peering over the thick, black rims of his glasses. His white polo shirt and paint-stained jeans shrouded beneath a dark, blue apron. Frank turned around at the sound the door opening and the man's footsteps.

"Are you the owner?" I questioned, pulling the notepad and pencil from the pocket of my trench coat.

"Ye-Yes, sir." He mumbled, stepping up the counter.

"We have some questions." I added, pushing past Frank who was still enjoying the candy bar.

"Okay..."

"What exactly happened here today? What do you remember?"

"Uh…I was just cleaning the place, getting ready for today. It must have been about…six-six thirty-and someone knocked on the door. I told him we were closed but he knocked again. He said something about using the bathroom. I figured 'What the hell? It can't hurt to let him in, right? Maybe he'll buy something on the way out?'" A forced smile. "Um…well, I opened the door and before I even let the door go, he rushed me. He pushed me up against the counter, knocking all the stuff over, and pushed a gun up against my head. Said he'd kill me if I didn't open the register. I told him about how the register was broken and we've been storing all the money in our pockets for the past few days, waiting for the repair guy." The man froze for a second, lightly caressing a gash on his head. "I…I think he hit me in the head because the last thing I remember, I was waking up to the sound of a car screeching and stalling outside before finally leaving and the cash register was busted open, my wallet missing."

"Did you get a good look at the man?" I asked, scribbling the last of my notes on my wad of paper.

"Not really. As you can see, the lights busted and he was wearing sunglasses and a hat. But he was white, very pale, actually. Six foot, maybe six foot two? Uh, blue jeans, black hood. That's it…"

"And the stalling car? Did you get a good look at that?"

"Only for a brief second." The man shrugged, scratching at a dent in the counter. "I think it was silver, maybe white."

"Why do you think it was stalling?"

"Oh, that's easy. I've heard that sound many times before. It was a stick-shift."

_Everything matches up to the Parker case._

"Anything else you care to tell us?"

"Not that I can think of. My head is pounding. Might take a few days."

"Call us if you do remember." I gave him a quick smile turned towards Frank, nodding at him to go to the car.

He nodded back, taking a bite of the 'Kit Kat.'

Once Frank had turned around, I turned back towards the store owner who was heading towards the back door again. "Wait!" I called, pressing up against the counter.

"Huh?" The man turned quickly, glasses falling off the bridge of his nose.

"How much for a 'Kit-Kat'?" I pulled out my wallet, sliding two dollars out.

"Fifty cents."

I dropped the two, light, green pieces of paper on the counter and headed back towards the car.

He called after me. "Don't you want your candy bar?"

I hurried up next to Frank who had just entered the sidewalk, nearly tripping a young woman. I ripped the 'Kit Kat' from his hand and threw it on the ground, crushing it with the heel of my shoe as I walked over it.

_I already got it. _

**xXx**

The soda can skipped and rolled as my foot crushed into it, sending it twenty feet down the sidewalk. I stepped on it once for good measure, the soft metal crunching beneath my weight, a blue smudge on the dirt-infested sidewalk. Rows of cars honking and rumbling as traffic continued to slow, a little boy riding a bike beside me, wobbling and wide-eyed. I looked over smiling and his eyes met mine. He turned away almost instantly, stopping the bike and turning around. The sun was setting low on the horizon and I could just see the top half of the yellow orb between brick-layered buildings and rusted pipes.

My phone read 6:57 PM.

_I should be getting home. The car's a half hour walk from here. _

I turned on my heel, retracing my steps and was distracted by a startling scream. It was blood-curdling and could be heard above the rooftops. Pigeons leapt up into the air at the very sound. Turning the corner, a rather young woman, no older than thirty with dark hair and heels came sprinting down the street. Her hair was trailing behind her as she barreled down the street towards me, panting and gasping. Not far behind her was a man, thick, leather jacket and jeans. He ran awkwardly, stumbling slightly with each step. A knife gripped firmly in his right hand.

I froze unsure of what to do and watched as the two headed towards me, the woman's eyes meeting mine. She screamed again, and brushed past me. Without thinking, I whipped my fist out, knuckles connecting with the pursuers jaw. His feet left the ground, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and landed flat on his back. He gasped for air, gurgling noises emitting from his throat. He moved limply, rolling onto his stomach and trying to pull himself up to his feet. I stamped on the hand holding the knife, his fingers cracking as the crumpled into the sidewalk, a girlish yelp leaving his lips.

"_**Pwese**_ don't hurt me." He slurred, taking off the leather jacket. "Pwese. Take da jacket. Juss _**don't**_ hurt me."

He was obviously drunk, or high, or both, but I took the jacket anyway, weighing it in my arms. It was surprisingly light and flexible for a leather jacket. Probably worn out from years of use.

The woman rushed me from behind, wrapping her arms around me and crying into my shoulder. "_**Thank**_ you!" She balled. "Thank you _**so**_ much!"

I remained quiet, uncomfortable with her reaction to my violence.

"Is there _**any **_way to repay you?" She pleaded, grasping my arm with her hands.

I stayed quiet for a few seconds before finally speaking. "How long has he been chasing you?"

"Since 'Romita's'."

"The bar?"

She nodded.

"Isn't that like three blocks down?""

Another nod.

_Three blocks?_

"I never did get your name." She smiled.

I scanned her face, unsure of whether or not to trust me. In New York, trust was a difficult connection to create.

"Ben…Ben Reilly…"

She held out her hand and I grasped it slowly. "Betty. Betty Brant. I _**will **_pay you back…somehow."

I forced a smile. "Don't worry about it.'

As she walked away from view, giving me one more smile and a thank you, I looked up at the windows, all bolted shut. Not a single soul peering out, not a single worried onlooker.

_Three blocks. _

**xXx**

The car engine died as I pulled the keys out of the exhaust, my feet leaving the brake. The car leaned back and stopped in its tracks as the emergency brake and locked wheels held it in place. The leather squealed as I pulled myself out of the seat, shutting the door behind me, and headed up the steps to the front door, the leather jacket strewn across my shoulder. I entered the home coldly, feeling more than depressed at this city's selfishness.

_It's selfishness that got Uncle Ben killed. _

Paper crumpled and bent beneath my foot. I looked down to find the mail lying on the ground. Aunt May never picked it up.

I bent down to pick it up, Aunt May calling my name from upstairs. "Peter?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but stopped myself as I read the letters. Red stamps, official markings. They were bank notes. We owed a lot of money. Thousands of dollars. Uncle Ben and Aunt May never had a lot to begin with, and all the money that Uncle Ben left us was used on his funeral. Our income was down to Aunt May's pension.

"Peter…?" She called again, slightly more worried. I figured I should answer.

"Yeah…yeah, I'm here."

_Aunt May shouldn't have to worry about this. Even if it's old news to her. _

I stached the letters in my pocket and headed up the stairs to my room.

_Might as well keep the jacket. Could come in handy one day. Who knows?_

**xXx**

The apartment was cold, lifeless. The leftover soup from this morning sitting on the stove beneath a small film of grease. It was cheap soup-'Ramen' soup-and if didn't bother me in the slightest if it went to waste. I dropped into the couch, back slouched in my seat. I draped the trench coat over the arm of the couch, loosened my tie and slipped off my shoes. I slid the gun from my holster and set it on the table next to the phone. A wave of relaxation swept over me. First time since I left San Diego. I laid my head back, letting my hair fall behind me and closed my eyes.

Briiiiing. Briiiiing.

_Hmph. Wha-?_

I opened my eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the light naturally. I arched my neck up, massaging my eyes with my thumb and index finger. The clock on the wall read 9:43 PM. I had been out for two hours.

Briiiiing. Briiiiing.

_The phone…_

I pulled myself to my feet, staggering over to the phone, and sloppily picked it up. "Hello…?"

"George? It's Helen. Sorry it's such a late call."

_Helen…? _

"Helen. Hi. How are you?"

"I'm fine, George. How are you?"

_Her voice was as cold as ever. _

"Fine…I guess."

"Listen, George. About Gwen…"

_Gwen._

And suddenly I'm back in San Diego pushing a toddler in a stroller. Striking blue eyes and flowing blonde hair. We pass a beach and I stop to watch it. The waves eating at the sandy shore, the frothy edge of the ocean lapping at the land. The same spot of land where I dropped to one knee for this toddler's mother. Where we created her. Where I was left with her ring. Gwen. The name is like a distant memory, edges slowly crumpling in like charred paper. Every time I look at her, I see her mother. I see Helen. And I'm back at the beach.

_Helen._

"George?" She barked, the static piercing my ear.

"Yeah?" I responded, voice raspy.

"I was thinking about New York."

"What about it?"

"I was thinking…maybe that she should…"

I suddenly realized where this was going.

_No._

"...I dunno…"

_Please, no._

"..go to New York…?"

_No. _

My throat went dry, stomach turning at the very thought. Blood cold, my mind formed the image of Gwen here-with me-in this rotted hell-hole of a city.

_How long would it be before she comes home, traumatized, her mind and body raped. How long before her mutilated body turns up in an alleyway miles away from home. How long…?_

"George…?"

I came back to reality.

"I'm still here."

"So…?"

_Never. Not once in a million years. I can't watch her suffer here. _

"Fine with me."

_Where's my spine?_

"Okay, well, I have to iron out some details with Gwen, but I just needed to make sure it was okay with you first."

"Well, thanks for checking with me first."

"No problem. I'll call back in a few days to set things in stone. Okay?"

"No problem.

"Talk to you later, George. Have a good night."

The phone hung up. I couldn't move. My body had frozen itself the second I thought of Gwen in New York. This was barely a place for adults, never mind a teenage girl. I feel back into the couch, dropping the phone onto the cushion beside me and looked up at the ceiling.

_This is no place for Gwen. Not yet. _

My eyes made their way to my gun.

_Not yet..._


	3. A Fighting Chance

**CHAPTER 3: A FIGHTING CHANCE**

June 5th.

I headed down the hall, keeping my head down low; a habit of mine. The corners of my eyes painted a picture of shuffling feet and a dirty floor. I shifted my focus back down to my feet and watched as they trudged on without any sense of direction behind them.

_Where am I…?_

I lifted my head, looking around the hallway. My classroom was about 10 feet behind me to my left. A mass of students began to circle around me, trying to get to class as quickly as possible. A few grunting and complaining under their breath that I had stopped in the middle of the hallway.

_Clear your head, Peter. You're only two periods into the day._

I headed backwards my class but stopped mid-turn as I spotted Mary Jane at the far end of the hall. I figured a friendly face would cheer me up. I started toward her direction when I noticed she was talking to someone else. A tall, thin guy with blonde hair. I vaguely recognized him as a junior, a year older than me or Mary Jane.

_What's his name again? Derrick? Dillon? Dillon! Was that his last name or his first name...? _

I looked back at MJ, her bright smile beaming at his as the two shared a laugh together, her gorgeous red hair trailing beside her head. With a disappointing sigh I turned my back and headed towards my class. 

I entered my classroom, took my seat in the back of the room, and dropped my backpack to the floor, rolling out my shoulders. The speaker screamed a single jolt of static; a warning to the students that class was starting in a minute. Kids began to pour into the classroom and I watched as each one took their seat, wondering what they were thinking, what was going through their head. Whatever it was, it was most likely more pleasant than what was going through my head.

Flash Thompson entered, cradling his backpack over his good shoulder, laughing at his friend, flaunting his good looks and pearly-white teeth. His right arm hanging limply at his side within his cast and sling. I watched him, my eyes unable to remove themselves from the painful reminder of days better left in the past.

_That cast…_

I bared my teeth.

_Stupid, stupid moron._

My fingers clamped, knuckles turning white.

_Go to hell._

CRACK!

_Agh! What the-?_

The desk beneath me cracked subtly and I slowly removed my hands from the edges of the desk, staring at the bent wood and cracked splinters, bits and pieces of it stuck to the underside of my hands. I looked side-to-side, making sure no one had seen my bout of superhuman strength. The teacher had his back to me, preparing the lesson on the computer, and the class was still chatting about their weekend. I tore off the loose slats of desk, still dangling by strands of wood, and pressed them up against my wrists. Pressing my middle and ring finger into my palm, I let out a silent, thin strand of webbing, damping the broken edge of the desk piece and stuck it back onto the desk. I did the same to the other side. The webbing would deteriorate in about an hour, but there would be a new student in that seat which means I was free to go.

_Oh, God. That was awkward…and stupid. Awkward and stupid._

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Flash taking his seat and turning to speak to the student next to him. I stared at him for a while, unable to take my eyes of his finely cut hair and tan skin. My eyes bore through his forehead and I wished that, somehow, his stupid little head would explode. He looked back at me and his smile dropped. He turned away almost without thought and ignored me.

_Coward._

The desk cracked again.

_I can't be here. I need to leave. _

**xXx**

The air rushing past my face, whipping my air, and flooding my ears was calm, relaxing. It brought a strange sense of serenity. My next jump sent me up thirty feet, the maze of suburban streets rolling back into the horizon, the bright, warm sun beaming high above the ground.

_Too high, Peter. _

The buildings in Queens were low, too low, and so I had to limit my free-run session. It pained me, but I figured it was better than not running at all. I dove across the gap between two buildings, rolled across the roof, and onto my feet. The time on my phone read 11:01 AM. I kicked at the gravel on the roof.

_God dammit. I'm Peter Parker! I don't skip school. What am I doing here? I should go back…_

I thought back to Flash, his arm cradled in that cast and suddenly I was outside school, landing blow-after-blow on his stupid smile. The uncomfortable warmth of his blood on my fists, the crack of his shoulder.

I looked down at my hands.

_Should have worn gloves. Having his blood on my hands was gross. _

I pulled out my wallet and counted the money. Thirty-four dollars in cash. The building across the street was a family-owned deli, the lights on, a man at the cashier.

_Well, I am kind of hungry. _

**xXx**

The clock on the computer glared a depressing 8:55 PM. I dropped the pencil, and my jaw, when I saw the time.

_There's no way it's that late. _

I extended my right leg and slid my phone out of my pocket. The phone read the same time and I sighed, exasperated. I looked down at the paper work on my desk and massaged my right hand with my left, shifting through the papers with the side of my palm. Tons and tons of crime reports, evidence reports and other police crap.

_One, two, three, four…and a half. Out of nine. Not too bad…I guess. _

I shook my head, running my hand through my hair and decided to call it a night. I picked up my papers, squaring them off and placed them in my briefcase. I shut my computer off and locked my desk. My shoulder knocked into the stapler as left my seat. I put the briefcase back down and dropped down to my right knee to pick up the stapler, sighing, once again. As my hand found the stapler, my eyes picked up a pair of feet stepping into my field of view.

High heels.

My eyes followed upwards as I brought myself to my feet.

Smooth, tan legs, a black skirt, an equally dark suit top wrapped tightly around a thin female frame. My eyes finally met hers and I forced myself to stay concentrated. Full lips and vivid, green eyes attached to a tan face with flowing dark, brown hair. Her make-up was light, but helped distinguish her light cheekbones and straight nose. My hand with the stapler searched blindly for the desk as I smiled and gawked at my visitor. Her whole body seemed to pop against the back-drop of yellow walls and a gray rug.

She held out her hand. "Jean DeWolfe."

I shook her hand and smiled brighter. "George Stacy."

"I know." She grinned. "New guy."

"That's me."

"What are you doing tonight?"

**xXx**

I pulled myself up to the window, peering into the building with the moon as my only source of light. I grasped the edge of the window and swung my legs over the edge, dropping onto a group of crates pressed up against the wall. I managed to smile at the familiar smell of the grime and rotted wood, the particles of dust dancing in the moonlight. My eyes made their way over to the garage-styled door and the embroidered steel sign nailed to the wall above it.

Warehouse 2B.

Once used as a storage garage for a man named 'Silvermane' years ago, the warehouse had been long abandoned and was now just a wasted shell of itself. Despite this, I picked it up as my own personal study spot after stumbling upon it one day after school. God only knows how many hours I spent in that dusty building, reading textbooks, doing homework. It was a 'home away from home' for me. I had assumed I would use it as a quite place to collect my thoughts after Uncle Ben died, but I never did get around to it.

I dropped from the window and onto a stack of empty crates lined up against the wall. As I jumped from the boxes to the floor, I spied my jacket sitting on a worn down table near the far wall. It's brown, felt exterior hidden beneath a silver layer of dust and dirt.

_There you are. _

I made my way to the jacket and picked it up, weighing it in my arms.

_Why did I even get this stupid thing? It's June. _

I studied the jacket, from the slightly worn sleeves to the stain on the left breast. My lip began to shake as I remembered why it was here. I remembered yelling at Uncle Ben and running from home, leaving the car next to some pharmacy that was being robbed. The look in that guys eyes as he looked at me, holding the gun to the cashiers chest. He had his life in his hands. And I just walked away. I left that man to possibly die just to hang out here and read a freaking book.

But he didn't take that man's life.

He took Uncle Ben's.

_My fault. _

I looked back down at the jacket, my mind recalling the final moments I shared with Uncle Ben as he lay dying in a pool of blood, the car he had come to collect long gone. The thief's filthy hands gripping the wheel at that moment. His bullet lodged in Uncle Ben's chest.

I looked down at the jacket. At the stain on the breast.

_What was I thinking?_

And I lost it. I spun on my heel, striking the nearest box with my kick. My foot broke straight through the rotted wood and made contact with the opposite side. I took a moment to collect my thoughts, removed my foot and dropped my jacket to the floor. Without thinking, I picked up the box with one hand, my fingers using the newly-acquired hole as a grip, and spiked it into the ground, the wood splintering into each and every direction. I took satisfaction in the rattle of wood raining from the sky, the rise and fall of my chest, the anger coursing through my veins.

_Felt good. _

As I straightened my back, I noticed a burned out car pressed up against the corner of the warehouse.

_Could I…?_

I looked down at my hands and slowly formed fists.

I ran over to the car and took a step back, admiring the rugged shape and texture of the metal. The soot and rust that had claimed it home. I took one more breath and dropped to my left knee, gripping the bottom of car frame.

_One._

I tightened my grip, the metal beginning to bend beneath my fingers.

_Two._

I bounced on my heels to regain my balance and warm up my legs.

_Three._

I used my entire upper body, pressing my chest upward and raising my hands as high as they could go. I strained my legs to stand up as much as possible. I could feel the burning begin in my arms and my legs and to balance the weight, I slid in beneath the car, pressing my back against the bottom of it and gripping the opposite side with my free hand. My arms were now fully burning and my legs were ready to snap in two. My back was aching and my lungs were becoming unbearable. I could hear the blood rushing through my head, drowning out the world around me.

_Don't pass out. Don't pass out!_

I shifted on my feet again; grunting as the car suddenly felt a lot heavier and with one last effort, tossed it over my head, to my left. The car spun through the air, dirt and filth dropping from its crevasses. It landed on its roof, the sound rattling the warehouse, the broken light on the ceiling shaking. A wheel came off and rolled across the cement floor. Dust dispersed from where the car landed, clogging my throat and eyes. I coughed and sputtered-my throat trying to get rid of the dust, my lungs trying to get air-and wiped off my face. As the dust cleared, I lifted my arms slowly, flexing my biceps. They were numb, limp.

_I'm going to feel that tomorrow…_

Despite the aching and the fatigue, I felt good. My whole body felt lighter and the lump in my throat was smaller than before. It was relaxing.

As I began to pull myself to my feet, the click and hiss of gears started behind me. I snapped my head around, slightly startled by the sound, and noticed that the garage door to the warehouse was being rolled upwards by way of electronically controlled gears and wires. The metal sheet door disappeared, letting the late-night moon stream into the building. A short, squat man stood in the doorway, leaning in slightly. He was wearing black pants and a brown button-up shirt.

"Hey! Who's in here?" He shouted, voice echoing throughout the room.

_Security. Oh, man._

I ducked behind the flipped car and looked over at my jacket lying by the open window and back over at the security guard. He was reaching for something on his belt, grunting and cursing under his breath. When he finally got it loose, I noticed it was a flashlight. I ducked slightly more behind the car.

_Hiding behind a car? C'mon, Parker. Run!_

The flashlight snapped on, a stream of bright white flooding the center of the building, creating a divider between me and my jacket.

"One more time! Who's there?" He shouted again, taking a step into the warehouse.

I jumped the car, using my arms to get me across and sliding my feet between them. I bolted across the warehouse, covering my head with the side of my sweatshirt and dashed across the guard's view. He shouted, but I ignored him, my eyes trained on my jacket. I tilted my body to the left as I neared the jacket and, letting go of my sweatshirt, I snatched it off the ground and jumped up to the open window from which I entered. Without looking back, I leapt from the open window and out into the moist air of Queens. I landed perfectly balanced on the top of the chain-link fence surrounding the warehouse and dropped behind the dumpster.

_Oh, man…oh, man! That was…that was too close._

My mind wasn't working. It was too tired, too scared and too guilty to think straight. Despite this, I still couldn't ignore how satisfying flipping the car was. It was new for me. A sign that 'Puny Parker' didn't exist anymore. A newspaper flipped along the ground next to me as the wind picked up and got pinned against my foot. I picked it up, opened it, and examined the page.

It was a cover to the Daily Bugle from months ago. The picture on the front was of 'Romita's'; a bar not far from my home. It detailed the grand opening and the piss poor reviews the establishment received both before opening and after. Despite this, the place was still standing. Most people knew why, cops too. It wasn't a secret, but in New York, as long as your secret pays the NYPD, you're safe. That's what 'Romita's' was doing. As my eyes scanned the newspaper, a feeling of hope raced through my body. I had found an outlet for my anger and frustration in 'Romita's.' All I needed was a costume.

I was going to enter the world of underground cage fighting.

**xXx**

"So tell me, George…" She began, sipping her coffee and letting it go down slowly, letting her body warm from the inside out. I watched her lick her lips for a moment, the saliva making them glisten in the dim light of the cafe. I held onto my cup tightly, letting the warmth seep into my fingertips. "What brought you here?" She eventually finished, bringing her eyes from the coffee to me.

"Here? As in New York?"

She nodded.

I sighed. "Uh, well…the **pay**, probably."

"Yeah, that's what I assumed."

"Why?"

"**Why**?" She repeated, furrowing her brow.

"Yeah."

She took a moment to answer, tapping on the sides of her cup with her fingernails. "Look, I'll be honest. You seem…**clean, **so I feel like I can trust you."

"I'm listening."

"The department isn't secure. Not one bit."

_Yeah, I figured as much._

"In the five years I've been here, I've seen more cops go bad, go missing or go out of town. **That's** why I assumed it was pay."

"Well, it's not like they tell you that when you apply for the job."

"No, but I figured the rumors would have reached your neck of the woods. Which is…?"

"San Diego."

"Ah, a **beach** babe." She laughed, taking a swig of her coffee.

I laughed back. "You're not far from the truth, actually."

I looked down at my ring finger.

"Got family there?"

"As of now, yes. My ex-wife, Helen, and my daughter, Gwen."

"Gwen." She repeated. "That's a nice name. Is it short for something?"

"Yes, Gwendolyn. Nobody really calls her that except her grandmother." I smiled at myself. "She's a stickler for that stuff."

"What did you mean by 'As of right now'?"

"Helen and I were talking the other night. Gwen's going to come up here and live with me. God knows why. Probably that time of the month for Helen…"

"Oh, that's nice."

"Time will tell."

The image of Gwen's body raped and tortured entered my head again. My grip on the mug got tighter.

"What's she like?"

I shook myself awake. "Who? My **mother-in-law**?"

"No." She giggled. "**Gwen**."

"Oh, well…" My mind froze in time, trying to piece my final moments with Gwen together into a single word, at the very least. "Uh-"

"Not an easy question, is it?" She interrupted, giving me a cute half-smile.

In my eyes, that tight shirt had just gotten tighter.

_Don't think of that. Not now. Not ever. _

"No, I don't think it is." I licked my lips and looked down at the table. "She's smart…not to brag…really big into science, actually."

"Really."

"Yeah, I don't know where that came from. I've always hated science. English was my thing. She's a nice girl. I know that sounds weird coming from me of all people, her father, but she surprised me. Pleasantly, of course."

"That's good. My niece is a real pain in the ass. My brother keeps threatening to auction her off."

"Wish it was that easy. Would've gotten rid of my ex-wife a **long **time ago."

She laughed.

I smiled at her.

The waitress came over to me, her skin nicely tanned, a thick accent on her lips. "Would ya like mo' **couffee**?"

"Ah, no thank you. I'm good."

She smiled, nodded and left. I looked back down at Jean.

"Who's you're partner?" She asked, pushing the empty coffee cup into the center of the table.

_That was a quick change in subject…_

"Frank."

"**Frank**?"

I nodded, gulping down the rest of my coffee, as well.

"Frank **Castle**?"

"Yep. **That** Frank."

"You poor son of a bitch." She shook her head.

"Yeah, he's not the most pleasant person I've met."

My eyes wandered over to the clock by the corner of the building. 11:15 PM.

"It's already past eleven." I noted, pointing to the clock.

"Wow. I should get going."

"I'll give you a ride."

The two of us slid out of our seats. Jean put on her overcoat as I placed the thirteen bucks for our coffee on top of the check. Jean put another five on.

"The bill was only thirteen." I reminded.

"Yeah, I know."

She turned her back and began heading towards the front door. I looked down at the five dollars. It was to the side of the check, two or three inches off. I reached into my pocket and put another five on top.

**xXx**

June 10th.

I angled my hair to the side so that it wouldn't fall into my face and reached over to the passenger seat for the sunglasses. The air conditioning hit me in the face as I crossed in front of it, my jaw tightening. I slid them on and made sure they fit tight. I had just cleaned them an hour before and so the lenses were near perfect. I burrowed into my pocket, pulled out my mask, and slipped it on. I leaned over to face the rear-view mirror of the car, adjusting my mask so that I could see no problem, using my fingers to outline the eye-holes I had cut out of the red, mesh-like material. I tucked the bottom of it into the red t-shirt I had beneath the leather jacket I had received as a 'gift' earlier that month.

_I knew I would have some use for this jacket. _

I rolled out my shoulders, the leather wrinkling, and looked out the side window to 'Romita's.' The lights were dim and faded; the 'O' in the name 'Romita's' was busted. A few stragglers were sitting on the steps outside the bar, swaying and laughing at each other or nothing. The part of 'Romita's' I was looking for wasn't in plain sight. It was in the side alley, out of view. I shut the car off and locked the door behind me as I crossed the street, ignoring the loud, obnoxious drunks to my left, and ducked behind the alleyway. The streetlights didn't reach this far from the street and so the alley was dark and quiet, the only light coming from a single lightbulb above an alcove at the end of the alleyway. I made my way over, passing wet cardboard and knocked over trash cans.

I looked back to make sure no one was following me and descended the steps to the steel door within the niche in the brick and mortar wall. The door was rusted and banged up. What looked like bullet holes littered the center. I hesitated before knocking, the bullet holes making me cautious.

I rapped on the door with the back of my hand and took a step back. The slide in the center of the door snapped open, a pair of bright, green, snake-like eyes staring back.

"What do you **want**?" The eyes hissed. The background noise almost drowned his voice out. Golden light, screaming voices, a rattling fence.

"You know why I'm here." I stepped forward, trying to be intimidating.

They narrowed off and held their gaze. "Did anyone follow you?"

"No."

The door's lock unlatched, gears spinning and twisting. It slid open a few inches, a shaven head with the same green eyes peering around the corner. "Get in. Quick."

The door slid open all the way and I pulled myself through, the door shutting behind me. The room was all concrete, a single light dangling on a thin, silver line above a black chain-link fence that created a box. A layer of smoke clouded the room, the smell of alcohol to go along with it. A mass of people, easily thirty or forty, crowded around the cage. I turned to face the person who greeted me at the front door. He was fairly large and wearing a tank top with cargo pants. His head was shaven, stubble for facial hair. The crowd behind me cheered as something got pushed up against the fence.

"What's your name?" He grunted, facing me.

My mind flashed back to the night I received the leather jacket I was wearing.

"Ben-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He yelled, holding out his hands. "We don't take **real** names here."

_It wasn't._

"We don't need to know that shit. For example, I'm Scorpion."

_An alias…_

"Uh…The Scarlet Spider."

He rolled his eyes. "Cute."

I turned towards the cage, the crowd going wild again. "When do I fight?"

Scorpion gave me a surprising look. "**You**?"

"Yeah…why?"

His scanned me from top to bottom. "Well-"

The crowd behind me exploded, someone yelling "Stop!"

"You're next." Scorpion smiled.

I gave him a dirty look and walked over to the cage. The door swung wide, three or four people piling in. A large man, wearing a bandana with multiple sharp teeth stitched on and a black t-shirt left the arena, sweat dripping from his short-cut, blonde hair. Several of the men crowded around him, patting him on the back. I looked into the arena, blood and sweat pooling up around the concrete floor. A few people were dragging an unconscious man by the collar out the opposite door, his nose crushed, shoulder smashed.

_Damn._

"You're up, kid." Scorpion laughed, pushing me into the cage. He shut the door quickly behind me.

One of the guys turned towards Scorpion. "I'm putting two hundred on Ox."

"You don't **have** two hundred."

"Does it matter?" The man laughed. "You'll just have to give me **double** once this runt loses. I figure it's easier to just **say** how much I'm putting up."

_Ox?_

I stretched out my shoulders, waiting for this 'Ox' guy and readjusted my glasses one more time. The crowd on the opposite side of the cage began to cheer, the enthusiasm spreading like wild-fire until the only thing I could hear was the crowd. The door opened and my opponent entered slowly. Ox was a beast. He was easily seven foot and probably somewhere around four hundred pounds. Each arm was the width of my head, his chest protruding outward. Scars lined his torso, tattoos decorating his arms. He was bald save for the handle-bar mustache.

_Maybe he looks bigger because he has no shirt…_

He cracked his knuckles and rolled out his neck.

_Oh, crap. _

Padlocks were put on each door, the crowd chanting Ox's name. My legs began to sway slightly and I could feel myself already doubting my ability.

"What's wrong? Couldn't get anyone** bigger**?" I joked without thinking.

He ignored me.

Someone rang a bell. The crowd exploded. Ox charged at me.

I ran at him, keeping my eyes trained on his. He raised his fist and I took that as my cue. I dropped to my side, and slid along the dirt-covered concrete floor beneath his legs and out behind him. He snarled, fist cutting through the air. I spun on the balls of my feet and leapt onto his back. Thankfully for me, his arms were too big and he was unable to reach me. I landed a few blows to the top of his head, my knuckles stinging as each punch hit their mark. Suddenly, I felt like I was beginning to fall. I looked at the ground and noticed that Ox was purposely falling backwards.

_Whatever happened to big guys being dumb?_

I released my hands and leaned backwards, keeping my feet pinned to his upper back. My hands hit the ground and I used all my strength to keep them up, tucking in my head. Ox's weight crushed in on me and my knees came up against my chest.

But I had thrown a car. Ox wasn't going to slow me down.

I took a deep breath and kicked my feet and arms out. Ox lunged forward and landed face-first on the floor, his nose breaking on contact. He snarled. I landed on his back, knocking the wind out of him. He tried to snarl this time. I went for his head again, hoping the tactic of punching at the back of his skull would work, but this time he rolled over, slapping me away with the back of his fist. I skipped across the ground, the skin around my ribs stinging from the hit.

"Ow…" I moaned, picking myself up.

The crowd was still going and my heart was racing, but I felt relaxed, especially since Ox wasn't quite as difficult as I had made him out to be. Ox pulled himself to his feet and I raced at him. He swung another strike at me, this time lower to prevent me from sliding beneath him. I went the opposite direction this time. I jumped at his arm and used it as a spring board for me to leap again. In mid-air, I shot out my webbing at his eyes, the silver liquid spreading across his face, and I drove my knee in after it, his lip splitting, that broken nose twisting. He grunted as the two of us fell to the ground. He landed on his back. A second later, I landed on his chest, knocking him out.

The crowd went silent. Someone screamed. "Ox lost!"

And they lost it. The screamed and shouted out of both excitement and astonishment. I tried to ignore them and left out the same gate I entered. I received strange looks and awkward congratulations from the men surrounding the cage. I didn't blame them, I would have reacted the same way. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 10: 32 PM.

_Better get home. _

I pushed through the mob of people who were preparing for the next fight and headed towards the door. An older man with his head hung low and his arms crossed was next to the door, leaning against the wall. I ignored him and headed for the exit.

"Nice job, kid." The old man commented, not looking up at me, his eyes hidden beneath the fedora on his head.

"Uh…thanks."

"You plan on coming back?"

"The thought **had** occurred to me."

"Well, **don't**." He stated bluntly.

"Why not?" I shot back, slightly insulted.

He turned towards me, showing his eyes. One was a sea-blue, the other clouded over. "You won't** live**."

"I don't know if you saw, but I just took down that **huge** son of a bitch, Ox."

"Yeah, you did. That was an interesting fight. The only reason you won is because you're **fast**."

"Yeah? And?"

"Ox is slow. Not **everyone** here is slow. Fancy Dan would have had his fist through your **throat** right about now."

"I think I can handle myself."

"No, you can't." He pushed off the wall and faced me. He must have been slouched because he was a few inches taller than me standing up. "You're going to **die** and I don't want that."

"What does it matter to **you**?"

"**I** have to clean up the bodies."

"Really?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I'm not a fan of 'The Enforcers', is all."

"'The Enforcers'?" I repeated dumbly.

"You're new, that's right. 'The Enforcers' are the best of the best here. I'm not jealous. They're just pricks. If they feel like they have **any** chance of losing, they'll rig the fight."

"Who are 'The Enforcers'?"

"Fancy Dan, Montana and Ox. The only **unofficial** member is Venom, the guy who fought before you. He thinks he's better** solo**."

"I took out Ox, though. Why can't I take out Fancy Dan or Montana?"

"I already **told **you. You won that fight because you're fast. That tactic won't work on Fancy Dan or Montana. You need to use **every **part of your mind and body to be a capable fighter. Speed, strength, intelligence, and skill. You have the first two down."

"So what do you propose?"

"I can **train** you. Form you into a better fighter than you ever imagined.** No one** will beat you when I'm done."

"OK, yeah. I can do that."

"Meet me in that alleyway every Monday night at nine. Name's Ezekiel, by the way."

He extended his hand for a handshake. I took it hesitantly. He smiled and nodded and I did the same before turning towards the door.

"Oh, before I forget, what was that **shit** you sprayed all over Ox's face?" He spoke out suddenly.

"Oh…that's…webbing."

"Webbing? Like a **spider**?"

I nodded.

"Guess that explains the name. Are you like a mutant?"

"Not really, no."

"What do you mean 'Not really'?"

"It's a long story."

"Ah...What can you do with it?"

"Not much. It's only accurate for a few inches before it develops a mind of its own."

"See if you can do something about that web of yours. Could come in handy."

"Yeah…I was thinking about that."

I looked down at my wrist.

_What's a spider without his webs, after all?_


	4. Not Yet

**CHAPTER 4: NOT YET**

"Does **anybody** remember what affects the inertia of an object?"

_Mass._

No answers. Just the sound of the ticking clock, the click of a pen.

"**Anybody**?"

_Mass._

Still nothing.

"It's **mass**." He scribbled it on the white board and turned back towards the class. The side of his hand milk white from the chalk. "You guys have to know this stuff come finals. That's only a **week** away."

_Yeah, I know…_

I buried my head in my arms, too bored and too tired to pay attention to the review for the physics finale. I looked over to my right out of the corner of my eye, towards Sally Avril; captain of the cheerleading squad and overall bitch. She was forced to sit next to me-the science nerd-because she apparently had better things to do than to pass physics. Ironically, it was more of a punishment for me to listen to her incessant whining and moaning when the wind never blew right. At the current moment, she was texting, like always. It was one of the rare times where nothing came out her mouth, except the occasional moan or grunt from whoever's text she was reading.

_Probably Flash._

I laid myself back down on the desk and let my mind wander free.

DING, DING, DING.

The bell.

Chairs slid and scraped along the tile floor, backpacks being tossed around like garbage. The voices rose, the conversations becoming more intricate, more elaborate. I slowly brought my head up, my neck tired, weak. I let out a deep breath of air as I stumbled from my seat and towards the door. Being a 'man of science', it was ironic that I didn't like physics. Well, I liked physics, I hated the class. Everyday all I wanted was to go out and run around for a while. Leap over buildings, scale some walls, the lot. However, I promised myself I would never ditch school again. It was a bitter-sweet promise.

"Oh, Peter!" Mister Baxter called.

I turned towards him, trying to hide my exhaustion. "Yeah?"

"Oscorp is hiring for an internship over the summer. . I recommended **you **for the job." He placed his right hand on the counter, his fingers scratching at the black, plastic top. "You were **accepted**." He smiled.

_Holy crap._

"No way. Really? That's so **awesome**!"

_Now I really want to jump around._

"You have to talk it over with a parental guardian, first, and…" He froze for a second and turned towards his desk. He shifted through papers and drawers until he took out a single sheet of paper. "You need to get this looked over and signed." He handed it to me.

I took the sheet without hesitation. "Wow. Thank you** so** much. I had no idea this…**thing** even existed."

"That's the point. Oscorp doesn't reveal these things to the public because then students who **just** want to do it for their college applications don't have a chance to up their grades in time to apply, **possibly** get accepted, and then leave students who **actually** try all year in the dust. They leave it to the teachers to decide who should be accepted."

"Have they ever done this before?"

"Not that I know of. I hear you'll be doing small time jobs for a new scientist there. I think his name is Connors. If memory serves me right, his first name is…Curt? Maybe? I don't remember, but you'll find out when you meet him."

DING, DING, DING.

"That's the bell." Mister Dtiko noted, taking a seat behind his desk.

"Could I have a pass?"

"Of course."

As he pulled out a scrap piece of paper to write me a pass, I looked over the sheet for the summer internship; smiling from ear-to-ear.

Oscorp; a building of science and brilliance, attracting both men and women alike for the greater good of the scientific world. The company was founded by genius, and now millionaire, Norman Osborn. No one truly knows much of him. The public really only gets glimpses of him through press conferences when he is unveiling a new weapon for the government, or through the many newspaper articles in the Daily Bugle about how much money he donated to society before he scurries back into his office, making sure Oscorp runs like the well-oiled beast he intended it to be.

Just the idea of working for such a great company and such a great man instilled a bout of hope for my future.

**xXx**

I burst through the front door, ecstatic. I threw my backpack to the ground, placed the keys on the nightstand beside the door and ripped the letter from Oscorp out of my pocket.

"Aunt May! You'll **never** believe what happened today! I got a-"

I stopped in my tracks as I spotted Aunt May sitting at the kitchen table with another man. He was average height and weight with jet-black, receding hair which was neatly combed back over his pasty-white, wrinkled face. A thick goatee graced his lips did nothing for the suit that fit a little too tightly on his body. Aunt May looked up and forced a smile. The new man did the same.

"What's this…?" I asked, spacey, dropping the letter to my side as I watched the smoke from their coffee spiral up into the air.

"Peter…" Aunt May began, slowly. "This is Dr. Warren. He's a psychiatrist…"

_Oh, hell no. _

"What?"

"Now, don't be mad. I just thought it would be best for us."

"But you didn't ask me?"

"I knew you would say no."

"So you did it, **anyway**?" I was losing my temper.

Doctor Warren cleared his throat. "If I may…"

_You can't._

"I'm only interested in seeing what you have to say this once." He continued. "If you feel like we aren't getting anywhere, I just won't come by anymore."

"What do you say, Peter?" Aunt May's kind, tender voice kicked in. The same voice I remember hearing as I played catch with Uncle Ben in the backyard as she called us to dinner.

"**No**." I barked back, my voice suddenly taking on a grim tone.

"Peter."

"I'm not seeing any **damn **shrink!"

I threw the letter at her and bolted for the door, her voice calling out for me. I ignored her and hit the ground running.

**xXx**

"So, how's that **burger**?" Frank asked, smiling through his food, a piece of bun falling from his lips.

I looked down at my sandwich. The way the bun wrinkled, the patty's moist texture, the lack of flavor, it all added up into one disappointing package. It was hard to even call this a burger.

"Don't make 'em like **that** in San Diego now do they?" Frank continued, not letting me answer his first question.

I looked back down at my food.

"No…I guess they **don't**…" I sighed.

_They're better._

Frank laughed and used his big, meaty hand to slap my back, causing me to choke down the bit of burger in my mouth. As I looked up, holding back my cough, I noticed a person in a hood separate from the crowd of civilians duck into the alley across the street, face hidden in the shadow. The man's appearance sent a chill down my back; one I couldn't ignore.

"Hey…Frank." I nudged him with my elbow.

"Yeah?" He gargled through ground beef.

I set the burger down on the dashboard of the car and went for the door. "I think I saw something. I'm going to check it out…"

"What? Wh-" I shut him up with the slam of the car door.

The city was growing quiet, the sun setting lightly over the horizon. I ran slowly between car bumpers, red lights washing over me. I made it over to the alleyway, my right hand tucked into my trench-coat, over my holster. I got more and more nervous with each passing step as I realized I had lost sight of the man. Frank followed closely behind me, his footsteps slapping at the pavement. The alleyway was drab and cold, a minimal amount of light coming from nearby windows and a few wall lights. I could see the same person I spotted in the crowd down the strip of rusted doors and rotted garbage, spray-painting something on the brick wall. I moved faster, wanting to gain as much distance on the figure as I could before alerting him. I removed my gun from my holster as I reached the twenty foot mark, the light from an overhead streetlamp drenching me in its sight..

"**Freeze!** **Drop** the canister and put your **hands** in the **air!**" I lifted the gun, aiming at his shoulder.

The mysterious figure wasted no time; as soon as the sound of my voice bounced between the brick-coated walls of the alleyway, he took off running.

_Shit._

I chased after him, calling for him to stop. He ignored me and preceded to knock over a garbage can in the hopes of tripping me up. I leapt it up with ease and made sure not to grip my gun any tighter; making sure I didn't fire a stray bullet. He made a sharp right turn into a section of the alleyway I didn't see and disappeared behind the corner. I followed after him, hoping he didn't somehow disappear within the few seconds I had lost my sight. The new section of the alley was unexpectedly short; only about 30 feet deep before ending in a brick wall, only a single dumpster pushed up against the wall to the right. The man I was chasing was obviously expecting more as well. He was pushed up against the wall, his head twitching from side-to-side, looking for a way out. He must have heard me approaching because he turned around, pushing his back up against the wall.

"**Stay away!**" He demanded, pointing at me.

In the light of the new alleyway, I could just barely make out his face. Young, dirty. Tears streamed down his cheeks as if on a predetermined path.

"Son…**please.** Turn around and put your hands on the wall." I took a step forward and I could see him twitch. "Let's not make this any **harder **than it already is…okay?" I tried making my voice as sincere as possible. I didn't want him getting on the offensive. Too many things could go wrong.

Yet, it did.

His hands dropped into his pockets without warning. My eyes shifted from his to his hands within milliseconds, heart racing. The sound of my pulse drowned out the world as my eyes caught the glint of metal. Without thinking, I closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. The red-hot gunpowder dusting my torso, burning my cheeks. The gun leapt backwards, dragging my hands with it. Tremors tore up my arms and shook my spine. I let my hands drop back into their natural position and kept my eyes closed, letting everything soak in for a just a moment. Slowly, I peeled open my eyes and let the world enter my sight once more. The boy's body lay motionless and cold, the moonlight overhead only highlighting the upper half of his torso. His hood had stayed over his head, despite the bullet passing through. Blood bubbled over the shredded fabric. A revolver lay by his side. I could barely make out a splatter of gray-matter and blood on the wall behind him.

_Just a kid…_

Frank caught up, breathing heavily. "Holy shit." He gasped between breaths. "Right between th-the eyes…Ni-nice work…" Another deep breath. "I'll call it in."

He turned and ran back to the car, sighing, the smell of fresh gunpowder still tinting the air. My body shook and I was unable to remove my eyes from the dead body of the young boy, the puddle of crimson liquid growing larger.

_I had to…_

I looked down at my hands, the murder weapon lying peacefully between my fingers, five more killers in the chamber.

_He was just a kid…_

**xXx**

Towers and skyscrapers as far as the eye could see, their lights illuminating the island, inhabitants patrolling the streets hundreds of feet below. The flash of a car's lights, the honk of a horn. Sirens went off somewhere down in the street. A group of doves fluttered past, the air from their wings brushing across my face. I fell onto my back and watched as dark clouds rolled by like smoke in the air. I watched as they tumbled across the night sky and disappeared into sight. The moon emerged from behind a group of clouds, it's radiant light surrounding the city.

_The city seems so peaceful, so serene…_

Another siren went off.

_From atop a skyscraper, at least._

I picked myself back up as my phone vibrated once more. The screen read "Aunt May." I stared at the screen for a few seconds, letting the phone shake in my hand, sending vibrations up my arm, before I put it back in my pocket. I wasn't happy with her. Actually, I was less than unhappy; I was pissed. I was doing my own thing to deal with Uncle Ben's death. Even if it meant skipping school or joining an underground cage fighting tournament, my mind was slowly being healed. The last thing I needed was some two-bit shrink telling me what to think.

_She should have asked me first._

But as I started to think of Aunt May practically going behind my back to 'help' me, I slowly began to think of just Aunt May. Life was never easy with Uncle Ben and it was only going to get harder without him. Somehow, Aunt May was holding it together-so far, at least-and here I was bitching about her trying to help me. Sure, I wasn't pleased with the idea of talking to a shrink, but it showed that Aunt May was thinking of me. I never truly appreciated Uncle Ben as the father-figure he was. I only thought of myself.

_It was selfishness that got Uncle Ben killed. _

I looked at my phone one more time. Six missed calls from Aunt May.

_Time to go home._

**xXx**

The cool air lapped at the back of my neck as the fan moved back and forth across the room. Sweat dripped from my forehead, leaving drops of sweat glistening from my hands. I let go of the heavy, metal object from within my grasp and wiped the excess sweat from my forehead. I took a deep breath as the fan came back around and studied the object in my hand some more.

The heat made the gun feel so much heavier.

Despite the missing bullet.

_He was just a kid…_

I set the gun down on the nightstand, rolled out my eyelids with my fingers, and fell back onto my bed. I let the cold from my sheets seep into my exposed skin, cooling my body. Sirens went off in the distance.

_It's too hot for this. _

My eyes suddenly became heavy as my body recognized where I was. I could feel myself slowly drifting off into slumber, a weight being raised off my chest.

BRIIIIING, BRIIIIING.

The phone.

_God dammit. _

I let the answering machine get it, each ring rippling through my body and making my eyes all the less heavy. I had no interest in human contact right now.

"Hey, Georgie, it's Frank." The answering machine started, the static from the faulty connection scratching at my ears.

_Go away. _

"I'm just calling to say that the department and I are **really** impressed with what you did today. You saw something and did something with no second thoughts. We need more cops like **that**."

_Or less cops like you._

"It's even **more** impressive considering the age of the kid. I think the coroner said he was fifteen. Takes balls, man. Balls of **steel**."

_I had no choice._

"Ah, I bet you're sleeping. Whatever. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Georgie."

The message ended and the answering machine's robotic voice reminded me of the date and time. I continued to stare at the ceiling for a few more moments, admiring the water damage. The precinct was dry, corrupt. Even a blind man could see it. The cops thrived on power and money, protected the innocent just for another pay check, not because it was the right thing to do. I didn't know how much longer I would be able to stand for it and if I cracked, how far would I go?

_How far?_

I had no way of telling, but I needed to get my word out, one way or another.

I picked myself off my bed, the sweat from my back creating suction between me and the bed. I stumbled towards the desk at the opposite side of my bed. I shuffled through drawers, the rusty hinges squealing with each inch I pulled them out. The bottom draw on the left side held what I was looking for: a notebook. I was going to begin documenting every incident I witnessed, heard of, or took part of in the NYPD precinct. I was going to unveil the truth.

Whether I was already dead or not.

**xXx**

_I'm gonna regret this._

The night had brought heat with it and I could feel sweat drip down the back of my knees, my jeans absorbing any and all heat. Mosquitos zipped past like bullets as a chorus of bugs sang out in the distance. A slight breeze rolled across my face. The first floor of the two-story suburban house that I call home was illuminated like a beacon of hope.

_She's still awake. She's never up this late. _

I dragged myself up the brick-layered steps, regretting each time my feet pushed me up another flight, and entered through the front door.

Aunt May stood in the living room, one hand placed on her head, the other clasping the phone. She was wearing the same clothes she had when I had arrived home from school. The kitchen table was empty: just the way I like it.

"Yes…y-yes. I don't' **know**. No, I don't know. It was like…two, two-thirty. Uh, he-"

She turned around and faced me, standing in the door way. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. I made a half-hearted attempt to smile and mouthed "Hi." Without a word, she dropped the phone to the ground and ran over to me. Her arms wrapped around my back as my pushed her face into my shoulder. I took a step back, adjusting to her weight, and hugged her back. After a few seconds, she clasped my shoulders with each hand and pushed me off.

"I'm so glad you're **back**." She cried, happily, tears welling in her eyes.

She hugged me again and when she came back up to face me, her tone had radically changed. "Don't you ever, **ever**, do that again. **You scared me half to death!**"

"I'm sorry. I…I just couldn't take the idea of seeing a **shrink**."

"Peter, I hired Mr. Warren because I thought it would be **best** for you."

"I don't** need **help." I replied quietly.

"How am **I** supposed to know that? We never talked about…it. I wasn't sure **what** to do. I had hoped Mr. Warren would do that for me."

"You should have asked me."

"I **would** have had I known you were going to run away."

I was silent for a moment. "Sorry."

"It's okay. You're safe and that's all that matters." She let go of my shoulders, and took a step back. "Now…off to **bed.** It's been a long night. We'll talk about it again in the morning."

I gave her another half-smile and headed up the stairs, my exhaustion kicking in. It was good to be home.

"Oh, and, Peter." Aunt May called. "Don't think you're off the **hook**."

_Dammit._

**xXx**

June 12th, Monday.

I descended into darkness of the dim-lit alley once more as the clock struck nine. A rat scurried along some nearby dumpsters, a shirt dropping from one of the clothes hangers high above my head. I ignored the sights, sounds, and smells of the poor section of Manhattan and concentrated on the hidden alcove not-so-hidden behind a large stack of garbage cans and wet cardboard boxes. I made a beeline for the steel door deep within the recess in the brick wall and adjusted my mask to a more comfortable position.

I took one step into the alcove before I heard the raspy, cigarette-beaten voice of my 'mentor.' "Over here, kid."

I spun around, a bolt of fear running up my spine. "**Jesus**. You scared the **hell** out of me there. Where did you **come** from?"

"Doesn't matter." He pushed past me and down the concrete steps. "Follow me."

I did as I was told and followed him into the cold, whiskey-soaked room where the fights were held. For a Monday night, there was a surprising amount of people; easily thirty to forty people in the main room alone. As we crossed the room, weaving and sliding between the huddled masses of the dirt-covered and the poor, I noticed an unnerving amount of eyes trained on me. The mask had claimed an identity of its own, using my own abilities to create its reputation. I was being recognized.

"Don't these people know it's inappropriate to** stare**?" I joked to Ezekial.

He didn't respond.

_Cold._

We emerged through the crowd and out on the other side of the concrete room. A single door-made of the same material as the door outside-was the only thing to grace the wall, aside from the splatters of blood and alcohol. We continued on through the steel door and entered a pitch-black room which reeked of cigarettes and cheap beer. Ezekial flipped the light switch revealing a musty, blue-coated room. A desk made of cheap wood was pushed up against the far wall, hidden beneath layers of paper and beer bottles; the ashtray on the corner still smoking. Various weights surrounded the desk and the immediate area, a punching bag hang from the center of the room, below the only light in the room which revealed the floating levels of dust like a transparent carpet. Ezekial held the door open for me and stared out into the mass of people in the main room until he closed the door behind me, silencing the screaming and the cheers.

"What is this place?" I asked, thankful for the mask which filtered out most of the dust in the air.

"It's the boss's office."

"And we're just **allowed** to walk right in?"

"The boss granted me a **special pass**." He responded sarcastically, letting out a solid cough.

"Uh…okay."

Ezekial remained silent as he removed his leather jacket and placed it atop the pile of papers on the desk, revealing a camouflage t-shirt which highlighted his surprisingly large pecks and biceps. He rolled out his shoulders, cracked his neck, and pointed to the punching bag.

"Hit it."

"Okay…how hard?"

"Hard as you **can**."

I looked down at my arms. "Probably not a **good **idea…"

"Okay, hit it as hard as you can **without** snapping it in two."

I lifted my fists to my chest and bounced around on the balls of my feet a little, letting the blood flow through my veins. I took a deep breath, fixated my eyes on the logo on the red, imitation leather, and unloaded a quick jab, the leather rippling beneath my fist, the energy rebounding up my arm. A jolt ran up the back of my neck, but before I could do anything, something came in from my right and nailed me in the jaw hard. My eyes went dark for half a second as I could feel my head for light. I looked over to my right as I rolled out my jaw. Ezekial stood there, cracking the knuckles in his left hand.

"**What the hell was that for?**" I gasped, still feeling the hit.

"Hit it again." He replied stiffly.

"What?"

"Hit-it-again."

I stared at him, bewildered for a second, and returned to my position in front of the bag. I let out another punch, striking the bag in the same spot I hit it before. Ezekial hit me again. I turned to confront him and he cut me off.

"Don't say anything. Just punch the bag."

I did as was told, woozy and disjointed. With each successful punch I landed on the bag, Ezekial landed one on my face. I did my best to ignore the pain, keep my eyes on the target, but I could feel my legs begin to shake and I knew I wasn't going to be able to stand much longer. I could feel my jaw begin to tighten as my punches got stronger and stronger with each hit I took. Eventually, unable to bear the pain, I let out one more strike, putting my back into it, and snapped the chain from which the punching bag hung from, the leather-bound sack of sand being launched across the office and up against the far wall.

I took a second to watch the sand drain from the bag and onto the floor; I let the pain seep into my face, absorbed by the numbness. Ezekial struck me one more time, harder than before, and I felt my legs give out, my eyes roll in the back of my head. I landed on the concrete floor on my side, my head pulsating inside my sweat-soaked mask. With an unsteady left hand, I lifted the bottom of my mask up and over the tip of my nose; just enough room to spit the blood that had begun pooling up in my mouth.

"Whhaa ddaaaa ffff-" I mumbled, barely able to see straight.

"This is your first lesson: Don't lose your temper. In this line of work, you're going to get hit **a lot.** Losing your cool isn't the answer, you just get **reckless**; and you don't want **that**, now do you?" Ezekial stated boldly, wiping blood from his knuckles.

I looked over at the sandbag. I saw Uncle Ben.

"No. I guess not."

I slowly pulled myself up to knees and took a few deep breaths.

"Here." Ezekial said, barely interested in me.

I looked up to see him handing me a cup of water and a pill. "What's that?"

"Asprin."

I took it without hesitation and downed the pill as quickly as I could once I managed to get myself up to my feet. "So…what do you recommend for my '**getting-punched**' problem?"

"Anything other than…" He looked over at the sandbag which was still spilling sand onto the office floor. "…**that**." He slid a cigarette out of the top pocket of his jacket and balanced it in-between his lips as he dug a lighter out of his pants. "Dodge, block, punch back,** anything**. You'll never make it if you keep absorbing blows like you're made of **gelatin**."

I swallowed the rest of my water, letting the cool liquid drain down my throat. I could slowly feel the pain evaporate from my face.

"Take a breather." Ezekial instructed, taking a drag of his cigarette. He leaned up against the desk as I sat up against the wall, too tired and too weak to bother standing.

I was beginning to regret accepting his offer to 'train' with him. I was in a strange place, with strange people, learning to fight while wearing a mask. The only reason I was even allowed to come in the first place was because I had told Aunt May that I was tutoring a kid on Mondays. I regretted making that up. I regretted a lot of things.

"Oh, by the way…" Ezekial coughed, derailing my train of thought. He looked over at the sandbag. "Nice punch."

**xXx**

I brought the sights up to eye-level and held my breath to steady them, my arms shaking for some reason unknown. I lined the sights up with the center of board, taking a few seconds to make sure I wasn't about to move, and pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The silver cylinder launched towards my target at break-neck speeds, hot gun powder being spit onto my exposed wrists. I bit down as the smoldering dust seared my skin for a moment-wishing I could pull my sleeves down further-before extinguishing from contact with the air and fired again.

BANG!

I watched the target waver as another shot met its target. I met its unwavering stare and could feel my right eye twitch unintentionally.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I unloaded three quick shots in succession without thinking, the target tearing apart as each one hit right beside the last. I pulled the trigger again, the fire still raging inside me, but was met with an empty, disheartening 'CLICK' as the hammer met an empty chamber. I lowered the gun, held the magazine release switch, and flicked out the barrel. Sure enough, all six shots were empty despite having only fired five.

_Only a kid…_

I shook my head, clearing myself of my self-doubt. I had lost enough sleep over it. That was enough.

"Hey! **Nice** shots, Lieutenant!" Steve, the gun-range manager, gushed, throwing his arm around my back. Steve was average height and round; his shirt curved around his extended stomach, stretched thin as it was pushed to its limits to make it to his pants. His belt looked like it was ready to snap any second. His mustache squirmed on his upper lip with each word he spit in my face, the scent of vanilla-coffee and chocolate donuts staining his saliva.

I ignored the spit glistening on my face and disguised me wiping it off as getting rid of a scratch on my face.

"Yeah, thanks, Steve." I replied, not looking at him for fear of staring at his obvious bald spot.

"This is some of the **best** shooting I've seen you do." He continued as the target came rumbling down the track, gears screeching. "What happen? Get in a **fight**?"

"My ex-wife called last night."

"Ah, a real **bitch**?"

"Guess you could say that…"

_Striking blue eyes and flowing blonde hair. _

"Ah, don't worry about it Lieutenant. If it makes you** feel** any better, I think I have a **female** cutout in the back I can put up for you." He gave me his signature punch on the shoulder followed by his goofy smile.

I ignored him and headed over to the target which had just recently stopped at the end of the track-over the waist-high counter covered in three of my five bullet casings. Each shot met dead-center in the head which had been reduced to a gaping hole in the plastic. I could just barely hear Steve asking me something over my own thoughts, but I never truly heard it. I think it was something about coffee, not sure. I quietly answered "Yes", still concentrating on the target, trying to win over my thoughts. I kept imagining the young boy and I soon remembered the promise I had made to myself about cleaning up this city for Gwen.

_How could I clean up this city if I couldn't get over that god damn kid?_

I looked down at the gun in my hand; heavy and meaningless.

I wasn't ready.

Not yet.

**xXx**

June 19th.

As my eyes hovered over to the clock above the desk in the boss's office, I noticed the crowd had picked up quite dramatically over the past hour. For a Monday night, I never expected this sort of activity. Was it always this busy or had the 'Scarlet Spider' left his mark on the cage-fighting community already? I tried not to think about it too much; it made be anxious and uneasy. Ezekial was right; I had only won my fight against Ox because I had what he didn't: speed. Fancy Dan was a totally different beast. If what Ezekial had told me was true, I could already tell this fight wasn't going to be easy. Fancy Dan was fast-really fast; as fast as one can get without a bite from a genetically-altered super spider.

A slap from Ezekial brought me back to reality.

"Wha-?" I gasped, blinking a few times.

"God **dammit**, kid. Did you hear **anything** I just told you?" Ezekial sighed, crouching as to meet me at eye-level in my chair.

"Uh…no, I don't think so…"

"Dammit. Okay, **here** we go…" Ezekial wet his lips and took a second to answer. For the first time, he looked genuinely concerned, worried. "One: **Don't** lose your temper, no matter **how** much you get smacked around." He patted my right check with his palm, tapping the slight bruise I had developed as a reminder of that lesson. "Second: Remember your **form**; don't **ever** drop your arms, no matter **how **tired you are, and **always** stay alert; we don't want you catching one to the **ribs** because you were paying attention to a damn** wrinkle** on his forehead. Third:** If** the opportunity arises, use some of the techniques I showed you. Those are straight-up **Judo** moves, use them to your advantage if you can. Lastly-this one is important so** listen** up: Use his speed to **your** advantage. You already know he's fast, so use it. Don't try and fight fire with fire. He's going to try and use that speed **against** you, make **him** lose control of it."

I opened my mouth to say something just as the crowd went insane and someone knocked on the door.

"**He'll be right out!**" Ezekial yelled at him, looking at the ground.

There was a moment of silence as whoever was on the other side of the door stepped away and Ezekial stood up. I felt like I was supposed to say something, but I couldn't think of anything so I remained silent. Suddenly, Ezekial offered his hand out to me.

"Good luck, kid." He said subtly as I took his hand and rose to my feet.

He led me to the door and opened for me, the rusty hinges screaming at me. The smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol smacked me in the face as I entered the main room. The room was packed with people; so much so that I had to push my way through the crowd, through sweaty, muscle-bound men and thin, cracked-out has-bins. We eventually made our way to the door, the crowd's screams acting as a soundtrack to the scene. 'Give 'em hell, kid.' Ezekial mouthed, the room too loud to hear him, before he pushed me through the mesh-wire door to the gate cage where Fancy Dan stood.

Fancy Dan wasn't quite as 'mean' as I had expected. He was a rather short, well-built African-American with a goatee and a shaved head. He was dressed in jeans and sneakers, no shirt. Sweat glistened off his well-toned biceps and noticeable pecks and abs. He hoped back and forth, his fists brought up to his face. I approached, trying to concentrate on the tips Ezekial had given me. I stopped two feet from Fancy Dan, his bright blue eyes burning holes in my forehead. Before I could even think about a plan, Fancy Dan landed a quick jab to my left cheek bone which I absorbed my staggering backwards. The crowd went wild. My right hand met the fence and I realized I could use Ezekial's most important piece of information.

_'Use his speed to his advantage.'_

If my back was turned, Fancy Dan would most definitely try and attack as quickly as possible. I spun around right before I collided with the fence, leaning my hands against the mesh, trying to look as if the punch had caused real damage. I had to trust my spider-sense on this one, the crowd had become to overactive to hear Fancy Dan's footsteps. As if on cue, the hair on the back of my neck raised and I instinctively leapt backwards, just barely dodging a strong right hook which struck the fence where my head was. To increase the damage, I used the palm of my hand to push his face into the fence, flattening his body up against the metal-woven wall. Before I could react, Ezekial entered my mind again.

_'If the opportunity arises, use some of those techniques I showed you.'_

I grabbed Fancy Dan by the right wrist and the left arm-pit. I twisted his body to the right, using my momentum to lift him off the ground and before gravity took him over, I kicked my left leg backwards, my hip colliding with his so that he spun through the air, landing on both his heap and his left shoulder. The 'THUD' of his body hitting the floor was the first time I had ever truly heard the room go quite before it erupted into more animal-like screaming and cheering. I had gotten too caught up and proud in my successful throw that I had forgotten about Fancy Dan momentarily. He spun himself around using his hands and swept out my legs with a swift kick to the shins. I landed flat on my back, my breath being slightly taken from me; stars forming in the corners of my vision.

_God dammit, he's fast. _

I looked over at Fancy Dan who had gotten to his feet faster than I had anticipated and watched as he raised his foot above my head, ready to drop it. I propped myself up one my hands and sent myself sliding along the floor on my hip. Fancy Dan's foot crushed the pavement with staggering force. He ignored the pain as I used my momentum to roll up onto my feet. He charged me, limping slightly on his right leg-the one he had used to attempt to crush my skull, and threw a punch at my face.

_'Remember your form: Don't ever drop your arms.'_

There he was again.

I threw my arms up to my face, his fist being stopped by my forearm, and went to throw another punch. I had obviously angered him because he put all his strength into this strike, telegraphing his strike. I leaned to the right, able to dodge this one and unknowingly let his fist collide with the metal bar holding up the cage behind me. I could physically hear his knuckles break.

_Jesus._

I looked up at him for his reaction. He stared at his hand, stunned and unable to speak. I took my chance and unloaded six solid strikes to his face in no time using my 'spider-speed' and finished it off with a spinning roundhouse to the ribs. Fancy Dan went tumbling along concrete floor, kicking up dirt and dust on his way to unconsciousness and stopped by the far corner of the gate, breathing lightly, knuckles bent out of shape. I stared at him in disbelief, expecting him to rise to his feet again, but he didn't.

I took a huge breath, leaning on my knees to catch my breath. The crowd's cheers were a mix of cheers and boos. I don't think anyone knew quite what to think. A short, skinny, newcomer in a mask calling himself 'Scarlet Spider' had just taken down two of the best fighters this group had ever seen. I didn't entirely blame them for their misdirection of their feelings on the subject. I looked over at Ezekial who had pushed himself up the front of the crowd and was giving me one of his ever so far smiles, even if it was barely existent. I nodded at him to show my approval, my mask hiding emotion, and found him nod back. The crowd had increased in pitch as three men from the mob of people entered the ring and began carrying Fancy Dan off.

I didn't know if it was the rush of adrenaline or the idea that I was the center of positive attention for once, but I felt more than great at that moment. I felt amazing. No longer was Peter Parker-whether I was known by that name or not, the weak kid. No longer would I be pushed around because of my height, the size of my arms, or my grades. I had become everything I wanted to be all my life. I was popular for something I was good at and still retained my intelligence. The thought of my intelligence made me think of school again. Now that school was over, I realized that I had a ton of free-time.

I looked down at my wrists.

_Better get working on those webs..._


End file.
